


lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones

by iridescent



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Cancer, Caretaking, Community: inception_kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Prolonged Chronic Illness, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent/pseuds/iridescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their lives are ones of danger and mind-theft and dreams beyond wildest imagination, not CT scans and grocery shopping and the horrible, mundane inevitability of illness and taxes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [W stronę światła, tam gdzie dom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902182) by [Donnie_Engelvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donnie_Engelvin/pseuds/Donnie_Engelvin)



> Written for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17947.html?thread=40114459#t40114459) (contains spoilers for ending), where Arthur is terminally ill. Title from Fix You by Coldplay.

It is just past six when Eames returns home from his morning run, iPod blaring hard rock and sneakers filthy with mud and grass. Argus, their three-year old German Shepherd, trails behind him into the dimly illuminated kitchen, tongue lolling and tail wagging furiously, exhausted but euphoric.

The kitchen is empty; there is no boiling kettle, no evidence of breakfast, no rustling newspapers and certainly no grumpy Arthur.

He bounds up the stairs two at a time, muscles complaining at the sudden exertion, calling out, “Still asleep, you lazy sod?”

Unexpectedly, the rumpled bed is empty (blankets kicked into disarray) but he does find Arthur slumped against the bathroom wall, knees drawn to his chest and head tilted back upon the tiles. The stale odour of sour vomit is unmistakable.

“ _Fuck_ , Arthur, how long have you been sitting here?”

“Not long. And calm down, it’s just my stomach playing up.”

“Three weeks of abdominal pain and nausea is not some pissy little stomach bug,” Eames frowns, remembering how reluctant Arthur had been to go to hospital even with a bullet embedded in his thigh after a particularly nasty encounter with Cobol. “Have you been to the doctor yet? Because if you haven’t, I swear to god I’ll-”

“I _have_ , but they all say I’ve got dyspepsia or irritable bowel,” Arthur objects, wincing as another paroxysm of pain shivers up his quivering spine. “And load me up with more fucking painkillers. I don’t need _drugs_. I have Yusuf for that.”

“He’ll be pleased to know you value him so highly,” Eames murmurs dryly, brushing back the sweat-slick strands of hair plastered to Arthur’s forehead. His skin is cool and clammy to touch.

“Shut up,” Arthur grunts, lacking much of his customary bite, “I just want a proper diagnosis. Oh, _**fuck**_.”

He bends over near double, burying his face in his lap. Eames rubs his back soothingly, brow furrowed. Considering that Arthur’s tolerance for pain is inhumanly high, to find him in such a condition is all the more disquieting.

“You are going to the clinic today, even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming,” he mumbles into the nape of a shuddering neck, broad palms kneading into the taut muscle of his shoulders.

It is a testament to how bad the pain must be that Arthur growls (all for show) but does not protest.

***

A week later, Eames is sitting in a sterile and tastefully-decorated doctor’s office, fingers reflexively drumming a harsh staccato beat into his thigh. He wonders, abstractedly, how the fuck they managed to end up at this point. Their lives are ones of danger and mind-theft and dreams beyond wildest imagination, not CT scans and grocery shopping and the horrible, mundane inevitability of illness and taxes.

(They are meant to be invincible, god damn it.)

Arthur, enveloped in a heavy scarf (he has been wearing a lot of them lately) and one of Eames’ old jumpers, has metamorphosed into Arthur: Point Man. Spidery handwriting races along the pages of his current moleskine as he jots down notes and medical terms attentively. He asks pertinent questions, he is composed, he is willing to comply with treatment, and he is in a state of peak physical fitness. All in all, Arthur is an ideal patient.

Only Eames notices that the tell-tale lines around his mouth are tighter.

Eames just sits there, stolid and uncomfortable in the hard-backed-and-too-small chair, an observer rendered helpless and hapless in the face of nature and genetics and sheer ill-fortune. Because no matter how good, how unbelievably kick arse _,_ you may be - sooner or later your health is going to knife you in the gut and gently remind you that you’re its sorry bitch, fucker. Whilst kicking you in the balls for good measure, most likely.

There is a pot plant in the corner. It is ugly.

The clock on the wall ticks on. Their consultation has passed the thirty minute mark.

Words loiter in the hand-sanitizer-scented air, thrown up between Arthur and his sympathetic yet professional doctor.

Cancer.

I-Am-So-Sorry-To-Have-To-Tell-You-This.

Metastasis.

Inoperable.

Tail of the pancreas.

Cancer. Radiotherapy. Unprecedented-At-Your-Age. Cancer. Prognosis. Cancer. Experimental Trial. Cancer.

CancerCancerCancerCancerCancer.

If you repeat it fast enough and long enough, the word loses its meaning.

It doesn’t sound as harmful, as devastating, as inescapably final.

Or so Eames tells himself.

***

They discuss their options and intentions (quietly, calmly, matter-of-factly) during the drive back home.

Eames’ knuckles grip white on the steering wheel. Their groceries for the week jostle around in the back, disregarded. Arthur’s hand rests on Eames’ knee, fingers digging into the worn material of his jeans, a gesture that belies his otherwise impassive exterior.

That evening Eames stumbles out the door into the chilly winter air with Argus loping at his heels, iPod left behind on the kitchen counter and sneakers hastily laced up. He runs hard and fast and out of rhythm. Soon his side will cramp up in stitches and his scarred left shin will begin to ache.

Arthur watches him till he is out of sight, crunching down on a pill for the pain.

Alone in the house, he paces for a good hour with a tumbler of whisky in hand, writing and rewriting the future in his mind and mentally composing a list of things that will need to be set in order. Cobb will need to know. God, the man might even cry, Arthur muses peevishly, unreasonably uncharitable.

When Eames returns, extremities frozen numb and somewhat less wound up, he discovers Arthur (fully clothed) in the overflowing bathtub; he is frolicking in the foam and downing more whisky, seeming to have graduated from glass to bottle.

“Um,” he begins inanely, torn between amusement and alarm.

“Shut up and get in,” Arthur commands imperiously, not as drunk as one might initially assume.

In moments of extreme stress, Arthur sometimes resorts to irrational and vaguely worrying bouts of recklessness and instability. Eames blames it on all that exposure to Cobb over the years. Then again, it _is_ probably healthier that he expresses his issues through the medium of inebriation and bubble baths rather than bottling them up behind a thin-lipped smile and smouldering eyes as he is usually inclined to do.

Probably.

Possibly.

Hopefully.

In any case there is no arguing with him when he is like this so Eames acquiesces genially enough, also still clothed.

They talk through the night about everything and nothing, flicking soapsuds at one another and sharing the dismal residues of the bottle between them. There is more water on the tiled floor than in the tub and Arthur-the-neat-freak will be so fucking pissed in the morning but Eames can’t quite care right now, caught up in the unspoiled brilliance of the moment.

He peels the dense sodden scarf from around Arthur’s icy neck, pressing delicate ethanol-flavoured kisses to the salty and soapy hollow of his throat. The skin there is already bruised and discoloured by bite marks and Eames attempts to hide a smile because _that_ explains the latest penchant for scarves and mufflers.

Arthur squirms away, bright-eyed, but pulls Eames up, hand fisted in the front of his vest.

They smash together in a muddle of teeth and tongues, spit and friction.

Eventually they manage to tumble into bed (naked, saturated clothes abandoned on the bathroom floor, towels discarded en route) and finally fall asleep, entwined around one another.

***

Six months.

It is an arbitrary timeframe, indeed, but a timeframe nonetheless.

Because Eames had thought this ( _they_ ) would be forever.

***

Arthur starts his first four-week cycle of palliative chemotherapy on a Tuesday.

Twenty-four hours following the initial IV infusion, he develops flu-like symptoms, low-grade fever and extreme fatigue. He spends three days in bed, covers pulled up over his head, curled into a compact ball. On the sixth day he feels better and Cobb is allowed to visit with James and Phillipa in tow, bearing an assortment of flowers, cards, chocolate and balloons.

The kids scramble all over the clean white sheets of their bed, grubby fingers and squirming bodies, vying to show Uncle Arthur their latest finger paintings and inquiring after his health with such earnest, guileless concern that sudden heat prickles at Eames’ eyes, wretched and unwanted.

He is in the kitchen having a beer with Cobb (exchanging anecdotes about retirement and gardening, deliberately tiptoeing around the subject of illness and expenses) when he hears two different strains of laughter floating down the stairs. The first is shrill and unabashedly unrestrained; the second is mellow, deeper and slightly breathless.

Eames huffs out a reflexive laugh around the rim of the chilled bottle despite himself.

Cobb bumps against his shoulder companionably, mirroring his smile.

Memories of Mal linger in the pollen-suffused air, unacknowledged but ever-present.

On the seventh day Arthur has to have another infusion and the entire fucking cycle repeats itself.

The next morning, Eames runs ten kilometres in thirty–five minutes. Argus is nearly frantic with glee, sinew and muscle rippling beneath his thick tan and black coat. He runs and runs and runs, sweating out fury and resentment and despair: lungs aflame, throat parched, legs quivering, head pounding, heart stuttering.

It helps.

Not enough, but he’ll take what he can get.

***

Eventually Arthur has to stop dreaming, not only out of consideration for his own flagging health and escalating fatigue but also to preserve the integrity of the team.

It nearly breaks him.

Eames watches him pack away his personal PASIV device, hands re-enacting a fluid and much-practiced sequence; the cloth rag perfunctorily ghosts over the vials and plastic tubing of the IV lines, the LED timer display and the activation trigger. There is something deeply intimate in the routine, sacred and awe-inspiring.

When Arthur clips the briefcase shut, he lets out a shaky breath – the only outwardly visible tell. Eames slips away before his presence can be noticed, palms smarting from the pressure of his nails biting into the flesh.

He calls anyone that matters (Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Victoria, Tadashi, Pearson, Dayas) at various times over the next few days, informing them that he too will be taking an indefinite leave of absence from dreamsharing and its enticements. The call to Cobb is more out of courtesy than necessity – he already knows.

None of them attempt to offer their condolences or platitudes, for which he is grateful.

“Look, you didn’t have to,” Arthur tells him unhappily later that night, arms folded over his chest, chewing agitatedly on his lower lip. He has worried away the chapped skin; a new layer shines under the bright lights of the kitchen, glossy and raw.

“But I wanted to,” Eames replies gravely, spectacles fogging up as he unloads the steaming dishwasher.

Arthur wrinkles his nose, accepting a stack of mismatched mugs. “Ew.”

“Hey, I was being _romantic_ just then, you insensitive bastard.” He aims a half-hearted swipe at Arthur’s arse, somewhat relieved that they are able to effortlessly fall back on the tried and tested route of easy-going banter and camaraderie.

“But _Eames_ ,” Arthur stage-whispers as he sidesteps the blow easily, dimples particularly prominent, eyes comically wide and alight with purported innocence, “We’re manly men.”

“And manly men don’t do romance?” Eames arches an eyebrow, pinning him against the counter top, thumbs resting on the bony ridge of hip bone peeking out above the elastic waistband of his track pants.

“Got it right in one,” he nods solemnly, lips quirking. “And people say you’re not smart.”

“ _Excuse_ me? Who are these mysterious people, pray tell.”

“Any point man worth his salt knows not to give away his informants,” Arthur intones primly, smile beatific, as if reciting from a manual. As he experimentally pushes against Eames, testing the hold, the neck of his woollen jumper shifts.

Momentarily distracted, Eames runs his hands gently along the length of an exposed clavicle, following bones that stick out like the wingspan of a large seabird.

As much as he tries to mask it beneath layered clothing and thick scarves, up this close his drastic loss of weight and muscle is readily apparent. He is thirty bloody pounds lighter than he should be; every single angle is sharpened, every dip is hollowed, every bone is noticeable.

Arthur remains warily silent, grudgingly tolerant of the scrutiny, but his smile falters ever so slightly; a flash of insecurity that disappears so swiftly that it may not have happened at all.

***

They don’t talk about dreaming after that.

But every so often as he empties the recycling bin, Eames will find crumpled up scraps of newspaper or magazine articles pertaining to dreamsharing, chemistry, architecture or even neurology. They are all painstakingly and extensively annotated with suggestions, thoughts, queries, recommendations, references to _other_ relevant articles.

He retrieves each and every one, smoothing out the creases carefully between his fingers.

***

Arthur has to consume 4000 calories every day, just to maintain his dwindling body mass.

This is broken up into several small meals and snacks every two hours, regimented according to highlighted timetables and specified to nutritionist requirements.

The problem is, of course, that Arthur’s gastrointestinal tract has no regard for pretty timetables or doctor’s recommendations. Since the onset of chemotherapy, it has essentially been throwing a persistent and belligerent hissy fit.

Once, in an outburst borne of frustration and sleep deprivation, Eames may have directly addressed Arthur’s abdomen, ordering it to man up and do its job, motherfucker. It wasn’t his proudest moment but Arthur had reacted remarkably well. Or rather - far too well, judging by the peals of raucous laughter (giggling, even) and thigh-slapping.

Eames knows he will never live the moment down but it is hard to deny Arthur much when his mouth keeps bowing up into a wide grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners and he buries his flaming face in his hands because he is actually, honestly, _crying_ with mirth.

To further complicate the struggle of sustaining an adequate diet amidst the bouts of nausea, vomiting and cramps, there is also a multitude of medications to consider – antimetabolites, analgesics, anti-emetics, pancreatic enzyme replacements, vitamins.

(The pharmacist filling out the script smiles at him sympathetically, shadows under her brilliant blue eyes; Eames clenches his fists and smiles right back, thinking _no, no, don’t look at me like that_.)

At first, the only substances Arthur can keep down for an extended period of time are milk, bananas and tinned peaches.

Eames thanks god, quite sincerely, for milk, bananas and tinned peaches.

Eventually, his intake progresses to include dry toast, oatmeal and electrolyte-laced ice lollipops. Every addition from then on is a small but significant victory. On the frighteningly infrequent days when Arthur actually _feels_ hunger, he tries to eat as much as he can - capitalising on his otherwise non-existent appetite.

And even then, despite all their efforts, some days Arthur simply vomits it all right back up - retching and gagging till he is trembling all over and barely able to remain upright, saliva and tears dripping down his chin.

Eames rubs between his scapulae tentatively, pushes back the sweaty strands of hair from his eyes and valiantly tries to suppress the growing tide of nausea in his own stomach.

(He rinses and spits, scrubbing furiously at his teeth, _Why the fuck am I doing this again?_

_Because the chemo may ease the pain, slow the metastasis, shrink the tumour, prolong your survival-_

To which Arthur snorts irritably though his eyes do soften, barely perceptible, _Or do nothing at all._

 _Yes_ , Eames concedes, flushing the toilet. _Or that._ )

On such days Arthur curls up against Argus on the couch, flicking through reruns of _Bewitched_ and sipping Gatorade to replenish the lost fluids and electrolytes. Eames sits by his side, a bowl of mashed potato (mixed with butter, eggs, non-fat milk – whatever the hell he can find, essentially) in one hand, coaxing, “Come on, seriously, you have to eat something for today.”

“I’m just going to bring it back up again,” Arthur mutters wearily, head pillowed against Argus’ warm bulk.

“You won’t,” Eames says quietly, though they both know he doesn’t quite believe it. “Just try. Please.”

It is unfair of him to use that as leverage because Arthur _does_ try, every single fucking minute of every single fucking day. For a sickening moment, he is certain Arthur will refuse, will tell him to piss off, but instead he compresses his lips; he sits up and reaches for the plastic spoon.

Eames doesn’t offer to help though he is hyper-aware that his stiff fingers are cramping around the bowl, the weight of his gaze no doubt unsettling in its intensity. His jaw is clamped so tight that when he remembers to unlock it, the insides of his cheeks are scalloped to the pattern of his teeth.

They stay like this; unaware that the reruns of _Bewitched_ have morphed into a marathon of _I Dream of Jeannie_ and that Argus has wandered off bored, Arthur slowly forcing down one mouthful every half hour and Eames holding the bowl for him, limbs tingling with pins and needles.

It works.

It _works_.

***

Three days before Arthur begins his second course of chemotherapy, they pile rugs and a packed lunch into Eames’ beaten-up ten year old pickup truck. They drive for kilometres, Arthur lulled to restless sleep by the motion of the rumbling engine and Argus shivering with anticipation in the back.

“Wher’re we goin’?” he wakes up intermittently (or rather: every ten minutes) to mumble crabbily.

“Go back to sleep,” Eames orders, squinting at the road ahead, headlights cutting through shrouds of pre-dawn fog.

“I don’t like surprises,” is Arthur’s next remark, bleary and peevish.

“You were the infuriating are-we-there-yet kid in your family, weren’t you?” Eames sighs exasperatedly, although it comes out far more _fond_ than anything else.

He chews on his lower lip meditatively at this conundrum, amused to realise that his jagged edges are perhaps being worn soft by this odd, haphazard domesticity.

“Ha ha,” Arthur is grumbling, punching his pillow into a better shape and pulling the quilt back up under his chin. “Wake me up when the sun is actually rising, bitch.”

Eames does, because Arthur’s sheer pleasure at watching the tendrils of pink light flare over the misty horizon is delightful to behold. They roll down the windows because it is not too cold and sing riotously along to the crackling radio with Arthur belting out any boy-verses and Eames supplying the backup whistling and girl-verses, pointedly not looking at one another because that’s just sappy and they are manly men, don’t you know?

But when Arthur croons, “Home is wherever I’m with you,” he leans over and pinches Eames’ cheek, really fucking hard.

And when they stop on the side of the road to stretch their cramped legs (nibbling on toasted cheese sandwiches and watching Argus sniff surreptitiously at the buttresses of a massive oak tree) Eames tugs Arthur toward him, fingers winding around his skinny wrists and licking the crumbs from his palms.

“Ah, home,” he hums into Arthur’s mouth, their breath coalescing, “Yes, I am ho-oh-ome.”

***

They are given six months but Arthur continues to breathe for longer than that.

Eames knows, knows without needing to be told, that for as long as he is able Arthur will fight for life – defying predictions, statistics, expectations and the limitations of his own feeble and disloyal body.

Because that’s simply the sort of stubborn, resilient, magnificent bastard that he is.

And yet.

There are times when he will impulsively reach out to interlace Arthur’s bony fingers between his own just to have Arthur smile and squeeze them absentmindedly.

Eames wants to say _I needed to feel the warmth of your skin._

There are times where he will change into his running gear but neglect to leave the house. When Arthur blinks awake at half past seven to see him perched at the edge of the bed, he will slur _How was your run?_

Eames will smile a secret half-smile, tousling Arthur’s hair and saying _It was great. I watched something beautiful._

There are times when Eames will sandwich Arthur between his arms as they sleep, watching the rise and fall of his rib cage with almost rapt concentration. Sometimes Arthur’s eyes will snap open, dangerous and alert, entire body tensing before he realises where he is. Then he will snort and push Eames away with mock disgust, grousing about the overwhelming heat and need for personal space.

Eames wants say _I’m just watching you breathe._

There are times when he will hook two fingers into the belt loops of Arthur’s trousers, tugging gently, as insistent as a child tugging a mother’s skirt. Arthur will always turn back to face him, puzzled and indulgently amused, head cocked to one side inquiringly. Eames will kiss him then - a slow, deep, languorous roll of tongues and teeth which occasionally descends into something filthier and more primitive, with Arthur pulling him towards the bedroom whilst impatiently saying, _fuck, Eames, I do feel okay, please, I promise_ and Eames unable to do more than acquiesce _yeah, okay, okay._

There are times when Eames thinks that Arthur seems ready to be done with his earthly, sickly body - ready to return to dust and ash. It is painfully apparent in the way he pushes the bland food around his plate, in the way that he stares longingly out an open window, sunlight caught in his thinning hair and the sky reflected in his eyes.

Eames wants to say _I don’t want you to leave, selfish as that may be._

Indeed, perhaps he is only staying because of Eames.

Eames does not know how to reconcile himself to that knowledge.

But, fuck, he doesn’t try and convince Arthur otherwise.

***

Their existence settles into a patchy sort of predictability: groceries and drug dispensaries, oncologists and veterinarians, Cobb children and the occasional waylaid visitor from across the ocean, support group meetings and credit card receipts, early morning runs and weekly infusions of Gemcitabine at the local clinic where the other pancreatic cancer patients (significantly older, jaundiced, bellies distended with fluid) pat Eames’ knees with their gnarled, veiny hands and show Arthur wrinkled photographs of gap-toothed grandchildren.

Too soon, it becomes a way of life.

At times it is difficult to recall what they were, or indeed who they were, _before_ – back in the days when their lives did not revolve around pamphlets and pills, weight loss and worry, counselling and chemotherapy.

***

People ask about Arthur’s health all the time: how is he, is he coping, has he gained weight, is the treatment working, has the cancer metastasised to his liver or lungs yet, is he willing to see visitors.

Very rarely do they bother to ask Eames _And how are you doing? _

***

Some days, Arthur is unrulier than a bratty child – bitchy and petulant and moody, made more irritable by the spasms of pain and illness and despondency rattling his bones, refusing to eat because everything tastes like metal and obstinately overtaxing himself almost to the point of collapse.

Some days, Eames is snappish and short on patience - unwilling to accept Arthur’s impending mortality and his own desperate helplessness. He will want to throw tantrums and teacups at the nearest wall, an insidious and monotonous voice in his head intoning _I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this._

These days are the worst: crippled with guilt, tainted with self-loathing, overcast with resentment.

***

“Your clothes’re gettin’ wet,” Arthur slurs tiredly, obligingly tipping his head forward for Eames to slather a decent dollop of shampoo into the wet-spiked tufts of his hair. The fragrance of fruit and honey is overwhelming now, sickly sweet in its artificiality.

“I don’t mind,” Eames grins swiftly, truthfully, idly caressing the shell of his ears and the nape of his slippery neck. Arthur shudders at the touch; a tremor snakes down the arc of his sudsy spine, fine trail of hairs standing on end. “Consider it retribution for all those times I’ve made you come in your pants with my dazzling sexual prowess.”

Arthur does smile at that, ducking his head down as if to hide it - amused, disbelieving, possibly even a little embarrassed. There is a daub of lather on his chin, his hair is plastered to his scalp, and his eyes are circled with dark rings and crow’s feet.

Even so, he is still as wondrous as he once was when wielding guns and grenades, executing successful extractions with mere seconds left on the clock, constructing complex worlds and paradoxical architecture from null and void or crisply enunciating his findings about a target, pen dancing between his fingers and chair legs tantalisingly off balance.

Defenceless, Eames is rendered momentarily dumbfounded - blindsided by tumultuous understanding.

(Because Arthur is still _Arthur_ , ill or dying or healthy or otherwise, and sometimes Eames is an obtuse prat.)

He leans in, elbows digging into the sides of the tub, soap and foam seeping into his shirt cuffs, and presses his lips to Arthur’s in a kiss that is softer and purer and far more tentative than they have been used to for a long time. Arthur blinks, kittenish, a low and startled noise wrung from the back of his throat; Eames knows that he registered the difference.

“What was that for?”

“Wanted to,” Eames shrugs obliquely, flicking shimmering soap bubbles from his fingers, discomfited but determined not to give into the temptation of dropping his gaze or deflecting the issue. “I just, um. Felt like I haven’t been all that-”

He falters, verbs and vowels fizzling on the tip of his tongue.

Because Arthur is _beaming_ at him, drenched and shivering and so preposterously happy. And bugger it all to hell and back, how did Eames ever believe that he couldn’t handle this, couldn’t handle _him_?

The tears are falling before he can help it and fuck, fuck, fuck, he tries to blink them away casually, dismissively, in an admittedly futile attempt to salvage at least some paltry scrap of dignity. But it seems that he can’t, or won’t, stop; the dull, heavy, inescapable grief in his chest is overflowing through his eyes.

Arthur moves toward him wordlessly, lukewarm water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He wraps his scrawny arms around Eames’ neck and lets him bawl into a soapy shoulder.

Eames cries and cries and cries some fucking more, reduced to a blubbering and disgusting mess of snot and tears and spit. He cries till he can’t breathe, ribs aching with the sheer effort and breath rasping harsh and wet. He cries till he can’t see, eyes stinging with salt and nose rubbed red and raw. He cries till he has nothing left inside, head pounding and throat constricting tight, emotionally drained and physically exhausted.

All the while, Arthur silently strokes his hair and awkwardly pats his back.

It is probably the most embarrassing, humiliating, uncomfortable moment of his adult life.

But when Arthur brushes away the crystallised tracks of salt from his cheeks and kisses the tip of his nose, Eames clears his clogged throat self-consciously and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can live with that.

***

With each cycle of chemotherapy the fatigue, joint aches and nausea worsen. Consequently, Arthur begins to spend more and more time tucked under downy covers, forehead furrowed and breathing deep.

On certain days he is only able to get out of bed for two to three hours, at the most.

Accordingly, navigating stairs is out of the question but when Eames offers to carry him down (perfectly serious, though his lips twitch ever so slightly) Arthur gives him a particularly vicious glare and the finger too for good measure, indignantly burrowing back under the blankets with a novel and his reading glasses.

Eames chuckles unapologetically and slithers in beside him, close but not too close, feet nudging and shoulders barely brushing. Shards of bright summer sunshine splinter through the wide open windows and billowing drapes, drenching the room in a mottled amber glow.

They spend an entire day in bed, lazily reading or dozing or talking about nothing of import, voices hushed and secretive for no fathomable reason. Whilst Arthur sleeps, Eames ambles downstairs to fetch crackers, soft cheese and an entire box of ice lollipops from the freezer, socks skidding on the chilly tiles.

Feeling left out, Argus follows him up the stairs and clambers up onto the bed too - disrupting the amiable tranquillity by pushing his damp nose in their palms, whiny and insistent. He licks at Arthur’s cheek, covetously.

Not to be outdone, Eames licks his other cheek, a flat stripe of tongue on stubbled skin.

Arthur actually shrieks, clutching at his face with such outrage that Eames nearly falls out of bed laughing.

***

When Eames shuffles out of the bathroom after a blisteringly hot shower, zipping up his slacks and cinching the belt back around his waist, he finds Arthur perched on the broad brim of the windowsill dressed only in underwear and a flimsy striped shirt, lean legs splayed and hair spattered bronze by the halo of afternoon light silhouetting his frame.

He looks on quietly from the doorway, appreciative but discreet, conscious of intruding into something that Arthur may not want anyone else to witness. He is fumbling with the buttons of the shirt, brows drawn fiercely together in exasperation, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated.

“All right?” Eames ventures eventually, placidly continuing to towel at his dripping hair in what he trusts to be a convincing attempt at nonchalance.

As expected Arthur’s eyes flicker towards him, instantly attentive and almost guarded. He wets his lips deliberately, a quick streak of spit across skin, opens and closes his mouth in the same breath.

Reaching a decision, Eames takes a few steps towards the window, purposeful and measured, tossing the towel upon the wrinkled bed sheets. Arthur tracks the movement thoughtfully, settling back against the glass, toes dangling a few inches above the wooden floorboards.

( _chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy,_ Google informs him, _is peripheral nerve damage that may present as numbness of the fingers and toes, loss of sensation or touch, burning, tingling_ —

He exits the browser abruptly, sips his cooling tea.)

“Let me?” he murmurs when he is close enough, gingerly reaching for the first button at the dip of his throat. He wonders if Arthur will push his hands away, rear back, retreat in on himself.

Rather he remains silent, nibbling on his lower lip, eyes blank and frown ambiguous.

At each buttonhole, Eames presses his mouth to the skin beneath the whispering fabric; he trails feathery kisses down Arthur's sternum and navel, dusted with dark hair. At some point he remembers to look up and is rewarded with the sight of Arthur tight-lipped and wide-eyed, head tipped back against the iridescent panes of glass.

Eames grins up at him and mouths at the bulge of his crotch, mindful to refrain from staining the dark material of his boxer-briefs. Arthur palpably jerks, tugging at Eames’ damp hair either in warning or entreaty.

“You teasing little shit,” he hisses, strangled and pitchy, waiting for Eames to straighten up to reach his mouth. “You have the worst fucking timing, I swear.”

Eames laughs into the kiss which is incongruously tender, lingering and melancholic, “We can spare an hour before we’re missed, if you like.”

Arthur huffs out an incredulous and despairing sigh, hot air ghosting over Eames’ lips, “As appealing as the thought is, we are not turning up to the birthday party of our eight-year old godson suggestively dishevelled and smelling of sex.”

“Shame,” Eames drawls, though he hadn’t really anticipated otherwise. He runs his palm along the length of one slim thigh, fingers tangling in whorls of dark hair, reverently outlining a raised ridge of scar tissue. Rolling his eyes, Arthur spreads his legs for Eames to step further into the space between them, dropping his heels to rest at the base of his spine. “It’d give all those nosy parents something to titter about, hm?”

Arthur mhm’s noncommittally, not quite paying attention. Eames follows his preoccupied line of sight and realises that they are essentially, however inadvertent, holding hands against the sun-warmed glass.

On a whim, he readjusts his weight and grip; he entraps Arthur’s right hand in both of his, pressing his thumbs firmly into the palm and massaging the scarred flesh there in strong, circular motions. Arthur squirms reflexively, thighs tensing and toes worming into the waistband of Eames’ slacks.

( _Now_? Arthur’s frightfully competent doctor inquires, gently touching the tip of his callused forefinger.

 _No_ , he replies steadily, impassive but not unkind.)

He slides his thumbs back and forth between the tendons on the dorsal surface of Arthur’s hand, traces the pale lines of his palmar creases, licks along the conspicuous network of veins traversing his forearm. Even when Arthur groans, strained and guttural, Eames ignores it ruefully - concentrating single-mindedly on the task at hand.

Finally he brushes his mouth against the tight skin overlying Arthur’s knuckles, sucking wetly at each joint, watching with open fascination as his features shift ever so subtly: a twitch in the clenched line of his jaw, a delicate tremble of eyelids, the ragged bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows noisily.

“ _Eames_ ,” he says at last, still so calm that it is almost an affront. Eames wants, in that fleeting and galvanising instant, to pull Arthur into his lap and whittle away at his many layers and intricacies until he is unreservedly honest in his needs, shameless in his wants, truthful in his nakedness. “Eames.”

Eames stops, agreeably enough, though he does drag his blunt nails along the softer and hairless skin of Arthur’s inner thigh, just to observe the way his breath stutters, the way his hips buck, the way his shiny mouth falls open.

***

That night, they stumble in through the door connecting the garage to the house in a blur of activity: shrugging off coats and bags, placing lovingly packaged hunks of birthday cake in the fridge and freeing the vibrant helium balloons that Phillipa had insisted on tying around their wrists.

Even hours later Eames is acutely aware of the heady thrum of arousal festering under his skin, the uncomfortable and restrictive friction of his clothing and of course Arthur, omnipresent and distracting and always in the peripheries of his vision. For all his outward composure, he had not fared much better – incessantly picking at the skin around his cuticles, crossing and uncrossing his arms and legs the entire drive home, toying with his phone.

And yet - they affect indifference and obliviousness, falling into that timeworn comfort zone and safety net of hedging and circling around one another, bustling around the kitchen and living room, busying themselves with last-minute chores and schedules for tomorrow.

It would be laughable, if it weren’t so infuriating.

But when Arthur leans his elbows against the kitchen counter to watch him water the potted ferns, forearms glimmering in the half-gloom and the top buttons of his collared shirt undone, Eames thinks _this is fucking ridiculous, what are we - gawky teenagers?_ and bridges the gap to kiss him messily, tasting vestiges of Miles’ homemade lemonade, cocoa-tinged red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting.

He tries to lick it all out of Arthur’s mouth, running his tongue over sharp teeth and the slick insides of his cheeks. There is a slight scuffle as they scrabble at one another awkwardly, yanking erratically at clothing and hair: a flurry of knobbly knees and hazardous elbows, chafing skin and wandering hands.

As Arthur grazes flyaway kisses to his hairline and the sensitive arch of his ears, Eames shrugs the shirt from his shoulders; he unbuttons it in the same manner he had buttoned it up, trading kisses for buttons. The colour is high in Arthur’s cheeks and a slow, lovely flush spreads down his bare chest and up his unsteady thighs, bleeding together at his navel. His trousers have been hurriedly shucked down to his calves; his legs are matchstick-thin, muscle tone and definition long lost.

Their fingers are interlaced again, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, the span of their hands nearly identical. Carefully, Arthur tightens his grip - as if testing a theory. Eames does not wince, even when the pressure veers into discomfort.

“Now?” he queries softly, hesitantly squeezing back.

Though veiled in shadow, Arthur’s blossoming smile is unmistakable – harsh, white, bittersweet, tremulous, beautiful.

He nods shakily, just once.

***

Arthur’s younger brother visits one day, pulling up into their driveway at some unearthly hour in a screech of rubber tyres and Guns N’ Roses blaring obnoxiously loud over the stereo.

He is a replica of Arthur, so much so that it forces all the breath out of Eames when he ungraciously wrenches open the front door in his boxers and a holey old t-shirt, half expecting a jetlagged Yusuf (who was supposed to arrive two days ago but is probably embroiled in a den of iniquity somewhere) or one of their inquisitive but well-meaning neighbours brandishing yet another casserole.

Not _this_ : a healthy Arthur-look-alike, with freckles, shaggy hair and a messenger bag slung around his hunched frame. The only immediately noticeable difference is that he is taller, by a sparse handful of inches.

“Mr. Eames,” the Arthur-clone begins without preamble, in lieu of an actual introduction.

“Uh,” Eames manages, in an impressive show of early morning eloquence.

Even in sleepiness he catalogues the pitted scars on the other man’s knuckles, the taut muscle of his arms, the stability of his stance (feet in line with his shoulders, weight distributed evenly) and the stiffness in his posture.

A fighter, then. Perhaps even ex-military.

Seemingly following his train of thought; Arthur’s brother (because there can be no other logical conclusion) smirks but offers no explanation.

He has dimples, too. It is altogether rather disconcerting.

“Oh. Hey.” Arthur peers owlishly around the doorframe, laundry basket in one hand. If he is at all taken aback, it does not show. “Come in. How’d you find us, anyway?”

“Cobb,” he replies crisply, brushing past Eames with a civil if curt nod. Eames hastily mumbles a greeting, offhandedly attempts to flatten his bed-hair and wonders, dazedly, whether terseness is a hereditary characteristic.

He retreats to the kitchen, pretending to brew tea and hunt for biscuits whilst actually covertly spying on the brothers, now seated amicably on the couch. Despite initial impressions, Arthur’s brother is remarkably animated once engaged in conversation: hands flapping in the air, tousled curls falling repeatedly into his eyes, boisterous laughter ringing out more frequently than Arthur’s own sedate equivalent.

When the window of believable-amount-of-time-needed-to-steep-tea elapses, Eames squares his shoulders and slips back into the living room laden with trays, chinaware and platters like the whipped pseudo-house-husband he is.

It is easy enough to join in their small-talk, to ask polite questions without prying. In any case, Arthur’s brother is remarkably cagey for a supposed civilian; he offers little to no personal information and redirects the threads of conversation back to fairly generic topics: politics, world events, the stock market, and so on.

Eames lets the words and inflections wash over him, soothing and melodious, an odd twinge of affection curling his toes in their socks. Warm and reassuringly solid by his side, Arthur alternates between contributing ambivalent answers (yes, no, uh huh, why, oh really) and waggling his eyebrows at Eames as if to say _Count your blessings, fucker; you could have ended up with the talkative twin._

Being an only child, he finds the push and pull of sibling dynamics utterly bizarre. Arthur and his brother have not spoken for months and yet here they are, conversing and joking, comfortable in their temperate regard for one another.

When an appropriate opportunity presents itself Eames unobtrusively glides away, ostensibly under the guise of hunting for more biscuits or refilling the teapot or, fuck it, hanging out the washing.

After Arthur’s brother leaves in a cloud of dust and AC/DC, he emerges somewhat sheepishly from the safety of the study, having completed three crossword puzzles and created a flotilla of origami boats from the waste paper in the recycling bin. Arthur shakes his head in dry disapproval though the symmetrical dimples give him away, as always.

Just for the hell of it he presses his thumb to one dimple and fingers in the groove of the other, gradually squashing Arthur’s lips and cheeks together. Arthur scowls out of habit but makes no real effort to move away.

Eames ponders the frank injustice of being able to remain really, really ridiculously good-looking even with fish-lips and chipmunk cheeks.

“Look, he brought us this,” Arthur continues blithely, apparently unfazed at his face being treated as a nostalgic substitute for play-doh. Belatedly, Eames notices the small clay pot cupped possessively in his hands.

A single orchid spike sits snug in the soil, fragile and pale green.

“They’re my favourite,” he beams, dimples deepening beneath Eames’ fingertips.

He tries very hard not to mind that Arthur is cooing (incomprehensibly enough) over a ruddy potted plant because, really, that’s just stupidly insecure.

***

“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur says, drowsy but resolute.

They are lying in bed, facing one another but a comfortable hand span apart because sometimes they are too fractious to touch. It is five-oh-three and the sky is dark and overcast, rippling through with lightning.

In precisely ten minutes Eames will tumble out of bed, struggle groggily into his ratty singlet and running shorts, strap the iPod to his bicep and wash his face perfunctorily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyelashes. He will be out the door at quarter past with Argus faithfully at his side no matter the weather, for Eames is as much a creature of habit and discipline as Arthur.

Perhaps even more so.

Once upon a time, in precisely twenty minutes Arthur would have sat up alert and awake, arching into an easy and contented stretch. In his morning routines, he used to be unpredictable - occupying himself with anything from yoga or lounging in front of the television to research and conference calls with colleagues on the other side of the world.

These days he stays in bed, cocooned within fleece blankets and flannel pyjamas, grumbling disconsolately when Eames clatters back in at six, sweaty and muddy, to tickle him awake.

“I don’t want any more chemo,” Arthur repeats, though he must know Eames is awake. The lightning illuminates his gaunt features, his luminous eyes. “It’s not helping.”

“Okay,” Eames hears himself say, voice hoarse and sandpaper-rough. “Okay.”

Arthur’s eyelids flutter shut.

Eames watches him breathe for eight and a half more minutes, mapping the curve of his cheekbones with the coarse pad of his thumb.

***

The stretch of grey beach is deserted this early in the morning, save for a handful of zealous surfers vying for waves and the occasional elderly couple powerwalking along the concrete esplanade.

They slow down to a stroll; Arthur needs to catch his breath (although the side-effects of chemo have mostly worn off by now, his energy levels still flag faster than they normally would) and Eames uses the opportunity to roll out a twinge in his shoulder from sleeping at an awkward angle.

Arthur yawns without bothering to cover his mouth, curving into a lethargic stretch, thin vest riding up to reveal a swathe of skin and a trail of dark hair dipping down into his shorts.

He is resplendent even like this: sweaty, hungry, pissed at being awake, barely able to string together a sentence.

Unbidden, the words rise up out of Eames, bubbling over.

Some part of him wants to hold back, to prolong this patchwork mimicry of functionality for as long as possible.

Because even a half-life with Arthur is better than a full life without him.

Eames winces, salt in his nostrils and sweat dotting his upper lip. God, he sounds pathetic.

But it spills out, burning the corners of his mouth, unnervingly composed and detached. Ensuring that they are not being watched (as with most things, they prefer their affection to remain private and unobserved) he presses his nose to a sallow cheek, fingers curling around the nape of Arthur’s neck to jerk ineffectually at the short velvety hair there.

“I’ll be all right, you know. Don’t stay because of me.”

Arthur snorts, beads of sea spray pooling at the notch of his throat. Eames wants to lick that hollow clean, run the flat of his tongue across his clavicles, bite into the taut vee shaped by the muscles in his neck.

Shit, he thinks, _shit_. How is it possible to want, to still want, to still want so much more?

“Don’t think so highly of yourself, fucker,” Arthur sniffs. But his eyes waver between _really?_ and _thank you_.

Eames grins, kicking at an outcrop of serrated limestone. “Careful. I’m responsible for your pain meds.”

Arthur punches him in the arm and laughs, rusty and breathless, spiralling away just out of reach.

***

“I really do think you’ll be all right.” Arthur is absentmindedly tattooing kisses along the blue-green veins at Eames’ wrist now that they are hidden behind an embankment of rock. “You might not think so, right now, but you will be. You’re just that sort of adaptable person.”

“Shut up,” Eames grunts, jabbing him in the side with an elbow. “You’re ruining the sunrise.”

Arthur butts him in the shoulder with his head, gently, doing that thing with his mouth that looks like a smile but _could_ conceivably be a generous scowl. “I’m being serious, asshole.”

“Well, _I_ think you’re being a romantic, supercilious bastard,” Eames makes sure to grin though the execution is admittedly flawed, tugging at a twirl of dusky hair. “What happened to being manly men, hm?”

“You’ll be okay?” Arthur persists quietly, as if Eames had not spoken, as if this answer is the be all and end all.

(Maybe it is.)

“What do you think, since you seem to be the expert here?” He’s not going to say it.

“I think you’re stalling.” Dawning sunlight catches the creases at the edge of his eyes.

He is as beautiful as the day Eames realised that he was, and it isn’t fair.

“Race you back,” he offers abruptly, wiping his frosty palms on his shorts and then hauling Arthur to his feet.

Arthur bites his lip, stifling a laugh. Eames could kiss it out of him, violent and stinging. “You’re so emotionally backward.”

“And yet, you still put up with me,” he replies evenly, if only to see the glimmer of understanding in Arthur’s eyes, the shrewd slope of his smirk.

They are edging close to dangerous territory now, things left unsaid and unprofessed. It is farcical, of course it is. They’ve lived together for three years now – hell, had even bought a _puppy_ together (now a rambunctious monstrosity of a dog gradually eating them out of house and home), conforming to that stereotype of cohabitating contentment – and yet, they can’t say this one trivial thing aloud to each other?

“I put up with you for your orgasmic toasted cheese sandwiches,” Arthur is saying, true to form, looking directly at him, straightforward and seemingly sincere.

When Arthur lies he stares the usually unfortunate recipient right in the eye, as he would down the barrel of a gun, intent and watchful. There is no blushing, no averting of his gaze and no overtly obvious tells. It is almost childish - a brazen game of let-us-see-who-will-blink-or-look-away-first.

Eames can generally pinpoint when Arthur is lying, through a fiendish mix of guesswork, deduction, intuition and luck. Certainly, his accuracy is not one hundred per cent, but it is high enough to vex Arthur. As much as he doggedly tries to hide it Eames reads it in the flare of his nostrils and the indignant twitch of his bristly brows.

“Whatever you say,” he leers, leaning well into Arthur’s personal bubble until he is a mere inch away from his mouth. Interestingly enough, Arthur’s eyelids automatically flutter to a close as if against his own volition. His lips are bleeding pink from the chill, the constellation of moles by his nose stark against bleached skin.

Eames doesn’t kiss him.

He does, however, take off jogging in the opposite direction, footfalls heavy.

He strains to hear above the whistling wind, the roar of the irascible sea, and is rewarded for his trouble.

There is a sharp intake of breath and unchecked outrage in a reedy voice as it bellows _you motherfucking cheat_.

There is the tread of sneakers hastening to catch up, Argus enthusiastically barking in the distance.

There are two elongated shadows thrown against the concrete walkway, chasing one another.

There is a certain comfort in knowing that some things don’t change.

***

When things fall apart at the seams they do so capriciously, without consideration or care, inconvenient and disruptive.

But to say that it is entirely unexpected would be dishonest.

For Arthur and Eames anticipated and planned for this day many, many months ago.

One day, one perfectly ordinary day, the pain simply builds up into a crescendo; it becomes a caterwaul of enraged nerve endings unable to be assuaged by analgesics, sleep or misdirection.

Eames finds him curled into the carpet, nearly sobbing with each spasm of agony splitting his sides.

No. The thought is flittering, soon washed away by adrenaline. Please. No.

Spurred by instinct and training and dread, he helps Arthur into the passenger seat of the car, grabs the overnight bag that has been sitting beside the stairs for weeks and speed-dials their doctor. He will also need to inform Cobb and the neighbour who had agreed to look after the house and Argus for some days if required.

But not now, not right now.

“Fuck, fuck, _motherfucker_ ,” Arthur grimaces the entire way to the hospital, a hellish drive that veers precariously close to breaking multiple road rules and speed limits, squirming restlessly, seatbelt chafing against his chest.

Eames, a dull throb at his temple and eyes on the road, echoes the sentiment.

***

Hooked up to an army of whirring machines, Arthur is bed-ridden and unable to consume much besides sparse bites of his favourite ice cream, three spoonfuls of cereal or a slice of grapefruit.

At first he refuses the narcotics ( _I don’t want to be insensible; I want to remember_ ) but as the pain punctures through the barriers afforded by medication with shattering and devastating frequency, he consents.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Eames, fingers clawing into bland sheets, unashamed but also uncertain. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You idiot,” Eames kisses him thrice: forehead, nose, mouth, and whispers, “You _idiot_.”

***

Before long, Arthur is attached to IV fluid drips and syringe drivers that deliver a regulated dose of morphine at a consistent rate. It is an improvement and provides the much-needed pain relief despite the pervasive fear that with too high a dose he might descend into delirium or hallucinations.

As it is he is straddling the boundary between sleep and stupor, flitting in and out of consciousness, each interval of wakefulness significantly shorter than the last.

There are times when his eyes are glazed and unseeing.

There are times when he is alert and even animated.

There is talk of transferring him to a hospice but Eames knows, deep down, that he will not last that long.

***

Eames is purchasing his third coffee at the spacious cafeteria, the hospital equivalent of a food court, filled with anxious families and sleep-deprived medical registrars, when it happens. He had just stepped out for a breather, the routine of walking offering some reprieve to his frazzled and frenzied mind.

As he turns to head back, pocketing the change, he sees Yusuf hurrying towards him seeking eye contact and gesturing when he finds it. He is not running. But he is not dawdling, either.

“Eames,” he says when in range, eyes large and round and opaque, hands reaching out to catch at his sleeve. “ _Eames_.”

There is a buzzing in his ears, white noise that heightens in volume and pitch as he follows Yusuf back to the room, throat clogged and brain sputtering out wild theories and horrifying conclusions. Coffee sloshes over his hand in the reckless haste; the streak of resultant heat is momentarily blinding and breath-taking.

He pushes through the pain and ignores the basic tenants of first aid, increasing the pace of his stride instead.

(Because: what if… _what if._ )

But no, he is wrong, because Arthur is waiting for him.

They have ten marvellous minutes together in a dim and disinfected room that is empty but for themselves, Arthur mumbling groggily _It’s time, Eames, I’m ready_ and Eames confessing _I know it is, I’m here_ along with a few other soft and secret things that cause Arthur to smile and roll eyes that are so very dark and dilated in his ashen, haggard face.

“Thank you,” Arthur kisses him thrice; forehead, nose, mouth; whispers, “Thank you.”

Eventually his eyelids fuse shut and he drifts into a coma that is partially induced by the morphine and partially a consequence of multiple organ systems shutting down.

Eames holds his hand the entire while.

It is icy, mottled blue, rough and wizened like that of a cadaver.

He runs his thumb over the knuckles, murmuring words that he does not entirely mean and surely cannot guarantee, words that lilt and crack in tune to Arthur’s quietening deepening lengthening breathing: _everything will be okay, you’ll see, everything will be okay, I promise._

***

The lumpy brown blisters scattered across his scalded hand burst and slough off, oozing clear serous fluid. The new skin beneath is pale pink and terrifying in its delicacy, contrasted against the surrounding flesh which is angrily inflamed and sore to touch.

It is hardly necessary but a vigilant nurse insists on removing the collapsed flaps of skin with forceps and wrapping up the wound in gauze. She speaks to him as she goes through the motions, instructions cool and concise, though she must be aware that he is hardly listening.

His thoughts have been left behind in a room two doors over, across the hallway.

When she is done Eames thanks her in a croaking, tinder-dry voice that sounds nothing like his own.

Her craggy features split into a weather-beaten smile, wistful and weary.

In that brief instant he wonders about the scores of men, women and children she has nourished and nurtured, comforted and cleaned up. He wonders about the hospital beds under her watch that have been emptied, either by demise or resolution. He wonders if she still feels as strongly as she might have when she was an intern, freshly graduated and out of her depth amidst this sea of suffering.

The moment passes, and she moves on. Eames is left alone with her scent of starch, sterility and hand sanitizer.

To him, it smells like death.

***

Arthur is mostly quiet, so quiet that Eames often has to feel his pulse for proof of life.

But the following evening, the cadence of his respiration changes unexpectedly – each breath harsh and gurgling, rattling against the accumulated saliva and mucous secretions in his airways. With each strained and wheezing attempt at inspiration, the skin surrounding his Adam’s apple is sucked in with the force of the exertion.

Eames can barely stand it. Cobb whisks Phillipa out of the room, the line of his mouth grim. Mercifully, James is already out in the gift shop with Miles, deliberating over get-well-soon balloons and flowers.

His vital signs are perceptibly deteriorating now, red and green numbers winking down down down.

Arthur is dying, the process suddenly activated and inexorable.

Arthur is dying, and Eames is powerless to reverse it.

Because this is not some crumbling con where he can supply deliverance with a steady hand, a smile and a bullet.

This is real. This is now. This is forever.

***

Less than two hours later Arthur slips away in Eames’ arms, unconscious and unresponsive. His breathing had been sluggish, snail-slow, shallow gasps punctuated by periods of silence.

Ultimately the periods of silence, of non-breathing, win. Eames feels for a pulse only to have it flutter away from him, extinguished and exhausted.

It is the first day of spring, twenty-two months since diagnosis. Arthur is on the cusp of thirty-four and weighs exponentially less than he once did; he is a husk of the man he was but no less stubborn, no less resilient, no less magnificent.

Indeed, he may be more so.

His ribs are visible through the frail and paper-thin layer of skin overlying his skeleton.

Eames’ hands, burned and bandaged, could fit around the entire circumference of his thigh.

Activity swarms in his peripheral vision: Cobb, nurses, doctors, Yusuf, a social worker, an oncologist.

Afterwards there are so many people fucking _touching_ him, not all at the same time but throughout the hour - a kiss as brittle as the brush of a butterfly against his forehead, a steadying hand upon his shoulder and clipped condolences in his ear, a warm forehead against his chest, a fidgeting godchild latching onto his little finger.

But all he can focus on is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

Arthur, who lived sixteen months longer than anyone thought he would or could or should.

For himself? For Eames? For the odd partnership, friendship, kinship that sprouted between them, inadvisable and inexplicable as those around them initially considered it to be?

Who knows?

All he can hold onto is the truth that, because of Arthur, for sixteen more months Eames was able to say and feel and believe “we” rather than “me.”

***

The clock on the wall ticks on.

But they have run out of time.

***

They bury him on a brisk, blustery day.

The service is simple, unembellished and minimalist. Or so he assumes, for everything is reduced to fragments of sensation and filaments of time.

Later, try as he might, he will not be able to remember anything that was said.

Instead, he will remember this: the gleam of James’ hair under the sun, the sombre sheen of Victoria’s hat seeming to complement the subdued hue of Cobb’s tie, the rivulets meandering down Pearson’s rugged face, the pinpricks of pain from his seared palms, the rustle in the trees overhead, the downpour of crisp yellow leaves unleashed by an especially strong current of wind.

He does not cry.

Not when Phillipa smashes her contorted face into the crook of his shoulder in a terrible sort of symmetry, unknowingly harking back to another funeral; that one had been rain-drenched and raw.

Not when the memories surge back, thousands upon thousands of moments and experiences. The bustle and swelter of mid-morning Mombasa versus the mist-shrouded and clouded evenings of Paris. Shiny sunburn stretching down an expanse of spine and skin. Beard burn and shared toiletries. Ice cream and indecision. Shirt cuffs and Somnacin.

He does not cry.

Not even when he notices a figure in the distance, a lone and skinny scarecrow amidst a wasteland of gravestones and crucifixes. It could be Arthur, but it isn't. Logically, he knows that. Mentally he is ready to grasp at any chance, any straw, however unreasonable it may be.

(Arthur’s twin brother raises a hand in wordless greeting but does not advance towards their knot of bodies. Eames is selfishly grateful, knows that he would not be able to handle the sight of him up close.)

He does not cry.

Because what is the use in crying when Arthur is not here to scoff at him, to kiss away his tears, to cry by his side?

***

Yusuf drives him home in a ten year old pickup truck that once upon a time was used for road trips and rugs, groceries and garden tools. They do not speak, for there is nothing to be said.

As he turns to open the door, he feels a touch on his knee. The sense memory is enough to have him whip around, eyes wide and stomach roiling, only to see Yusuf - stricken and unusually nervous.

“Do you want us to—?” he begins, faltering. There are leaves caught in his curls, small and oval bursts of shocking yellow against the otherwise dark wisps of hair.

“No. But thank you. Thank you for coming.”

Yusuf frowns, hesitation etched into the edges of his mouth. At last he simply nods, insists on a quick and fumbling side-hug (strange as it is for both of them) and scrambles out of the vehicle into the saloon waiting across the road, engine idling and Victoria behind the wheel. Cobb’s SUV is parked behind it, kids and Miles in the back.

The convoy of cars disappear into the horizon, leaving dust and desolation and Eames in their wake.

***

Argus paws at his feet, sensing his unease but unaware as to the reason behind it. In a few hours though, increasingly perturbed, he will actively search for Arthur - sniffing in every corner of the house and fretfully staring at the front door.

There are a fuck load of casseroles and pasta bakes in the freezer, enough to last for weeks.

The dining table and kitchen counters overflow with a myriad of flowers: perennials, pot plants, bouquets.

Arthur’s shirts and shorts, ties and t-shirts, cufflinks and coats, socks and sweatpants are interspersed with Eames’ in their walk-in closet. His clothing is not, as one might assume, folded neatly and hung up. No, that distinction is awarded to Eames’.

Arthur?

Arthur is ( _was_ , he remembers, despair curdling in his throat, _was_ ) quite sloppy in the secrecy of his own quarters.

Eames kicks off his polished shoes at the foot of the staircase; he disregards the ringing telephone, the vibrating smartphone, the pinging of his laptop, and crawls into the(ir) unmade bed with Argus dutifully following.

The rumpled sheets are fragrant; they smell of sunshine and detergent but most of all, indulgent and intoxicating, Arthur. Arthur with the hollows into which Eames would fit his curves. Arthur of morning, Arthur of evening, Arthur of night. Arthur of everyday from here to infinity; or so Eames had once dared to dream.

He buries his face in a furry neck, eyes screwed shut, and concentrates on breathing.

In and out.

One and two.

Argus slobbers on his fingers plaintively, dark eyes soulful and earnest, a questioning whine deep in his throat.

In a pot by the closed window, a single orchid has budded but not yet bloomed.

Eames opens his eyes—

 

—to the sound of ragged breathing; his heart is hammering frantically in its cage of bone and tissue, muscle and blood.

He sits up, spine stiff and straight, blankets pooling at his waist.

A deluge of fleeting thoughts and scribbled images scuttle through his mind, too chaotic to discern above the maelstrom in his chest and the blizzard broiling beneath his brow.

And yet, even before his conscious self has had the chance to comprehend what is happening, his overwrought body reflexively relaxes back into the warmth of the mattress.

Because it already knows what this is (this head-heavy, eyes-bleary feeling) – it is the feeling of _waking up._

Oh, Eames thinks, the stale air in his lungs escaping like hissing steam through his eyelids, his very pores. Or so it seems, at least. Oh, right. Oh, _god_.

He tastes inordinate relief, bittersweet, on the tip of his tongue and swears (shit, fuck, shit, thank you, thank you) at the ceiling, trying to calm down his frenetic heartbeat. When that does not suffice, he yanks his share of the covers over his head, crushes his face into a damp and shapeless pillow and tries to ride it out: shoulders trembling, feet interlocked, cold hands jammed between his thighs in a futile effort to harness heat.

There is a notion (unverifiable but persistent) that he has had this nightmare, or an arbitrary permutation of it, before.

Not recently but some weeks past, perhaps.

Certainly, as the nature of his profession entails and his own innate curiosity dictates, there is the perverse temptation to nit-pick at the details of the dream while it is still fresh, still within reach – to analyse and theorise, to uncover sinister symbolism and ominous premonitions about the future, the past, the present, his parental role models, his choices.

But the specifics are fading fast now, retreating to the hazy recesses of his subconscious and dissolving there like sunken treasure in the murky depths of an unexplored ocean trench.

He lets them go gladly and gratefully, unwilling to prod and poke at the cobwebbed corners of his mind like some inquisitive or impetuous child.

Because some things ought to remain buried.

***

The first fringes of dawn filter in through the flimsy drapes, throwing alternating patterns of light and dark upon the wrinkled double bed. He must have been reading; the bedside lamp glows soft and amber, illuminating an upended novel and tea-blemished mug.

Intuitively Eames turns to check on the body asleep next to him, perhaps intending to graze a kiss to a scapula or to wind his arms around a slim waist or to even gently twine his fingers around the girth of a half-hard cock.

But he is alone.

The other end of the bed is unused, corners tucked in and pillows plump.

Of course. He exhales despondency and disappointment, removing tear-blurred glasses (frames slightly crooked from falling asleep in them far too often) to scrub fitfully at his crusty face. Of course. How stupid of me.

He rolls back over and wills himself to sleep, instinctively withdrawing into a foetal position, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Vivid, unrelenting flashbacks of the dream niggle and itch at his skin but he refuses to fall into that trap.

Yet, the mind can be torturous and unforgiving when it so desires.

 _It seemed so real. It all seemed so fucking real_ , it reminds him incessantly.

He wearily orders it to shut the hell up because of course dreams seem real while you are in them. Even the most amateur of dreamsharers knows that.

However it is of little use for, insidiously, an unwanted thought worms itself into his head.

Panic is instantaneous and overwhelming, washing over him in thick dark constricting coils.

Although Eames knows, he fucking _knows_ that this is reality and not some twisted fucking dream (or worse, some twisted fuck’s dream) he sits up anyway, kicking back the covers and reaching blindly for his totem. The mere feel of it, firmly enclosed within his rough palm, is alleviating.

Nonetheless, sleep proves to be elusive.

He mulishly wastes a good half hour tossing and turning agitatedly before finally conceding defeat.

Sheepishly Eames rechecks his phone, more thankful than he will ever admit to at finding no new messages or missed calls. Scrolling through the list of contacts (some deceased or exterminated, others missing or underground, most alive) he pauses on a particular name, thumb hovering indecisively over the green ‘call’ icon.

(Because: what if… _what if._ )

His breathing is still erratic, noisy, wet, jagged; it is the breathing of marathon runs and adrenaline fuelled cons, of long bouts of sex and—

That ill-advised train of thought is terminated swiftly, ruthlessly.

Licking his lips, Eames considers different time-zones and interrupted rest, the irrationality of unfounded worrying and the folly of _feeling too fucking much._

In the end, he taps out a nondescript text. Frowning, he rewords it. Cursing, he rewrites it. Then, painstakingly, he deletes each individual letter and tosses the phone back onto the bed in disgust.

Sun creeps over the window sill. He blinks, dazzled, and has to look away because it is far too tempting to envision a golden-skinned apparition resting against the panes of glass, a mirage of fingers and buttons and shirt tails and limbs.

As morning approaches Eames shuffles downstairs, dressing gown gaping open. He sorts through the weekly mail. Cleans and re-cleans his arsenal of handguns. Brews two pots of tea. Washes, dries, irons and folds three loads of laundry in front of the television. Peers disgruntledly at weather reports and paid advertisements for blenders.

The suggestions of a second inhabitant are more apparent down here.

A singular brand of coffee hidden away atop a pantry shelf, out of place amidst all the boxes of tea.

Mail that is not addressed to Eames or any of his various aliases.

Shirts and trousers of differing sizes and styles.

Post-it notes stuck on the fridge, cramped with spidery handwriting.

However, these suggestions are misleading because the supposed second inhabitant has not lived here for a long while now.

Eames refuses to dwell on that, and is mostly (un)successful.

 

**sixteen days afterwards.**

As Eames is replanting daffodils in anticipation for the following spring, Argus pricks up his ears from where he is slumped beside the rusting watering can and snaking length of hosepipe, whimpering faintly. Eames refuses to react but continues to watch Argus, the ugly brown bulb in his grimy hand forgotten.

Finally (as if unable to contain himself any longer) Argus bounds up barking, yelping, dancing, going completely nutty; he hurtles at something behind Eames, tail a whiplash of tan and black.

Eames turns around, though he already knows.

And yes, there he is – standing in the middle of a sun-splattered and unkempt garden, overcoat neatly folded over one arm and travelling suitcase held in the other.

He spends some time fussing over Argus, gaze alternating between the overexcited dog and Eames.

Placing the suitcase and overcoat down next to the watering can, burgeoning smile warm and tentative, he steps over the trowel and potted daffodils; his shoes sink into the loam instantly. Eames could protest (your lovely shoes, my lovely garden bed) but he doesn’t.

“Hello,” Arthur breathes into his mouth, nipping at his lips experimentally as if seeking to relearn their shape, to test their texture, to savour the long-denied tang of skin.

“Welcome back,” Eames rumbles, simultaneously wan and wondering, easily curving forward into the kiss.

It is hopelessly mistimed: teeth clacking on teeth, noses colliding, too much saliva and not enough tongue.

They shove each other away, laughing; Arthur is exaggeratedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the cheeky bugger. Eames pulls him in again by the wrists growling _how rude_ and _come here_.

This time they fit together as best as they know how, contours and cracks discovered and mapped over several years that stretch out behind them like an endless highway of trials and turmoil, tempers and theft.

It is not seamless by any means but they make do, purposefully overlooking niggling discomfort and underlying grievances for the meantime, content to delight in the here and now.

(Argus sniffs at their ankles, unimpressed.)

This time the kiss is unhurried and exploratory, generous and conciliatory: a pliant lower lip ensnared between uneven teeth, fingertips caressing stubble, the insipid taste of airline food almost overpowered by peppermint chewing gum. The core of Arthur’s mouth consists of unadulterated heat, soft and slick and sumptuous. Eames revels in it, probing and provoking mercilessly until Arthur swats at his shoulders insistently, starved for breath and flushed with want.

When they separate he finds that his muddy fingers are vacillating self-consciously at Arthur’s brow, having involuntarily and imprudently reached out to smooth away the weariness of jetlag and multiple connecting flights engraved into his forehead. He retracts them into a fist quickly, apprehensive.

Thoughtfully, Arthur cocks his head; his eyes are a little too sharp for Eames’ liking.

“Stress-gardening, are we?” His parted lips are red and puffy, words deceptively innocuous.

Eames shrugs, evasive and effusive, affecting an air of good-natured bemusement to mask the reciprocal thrill of arousal skittering around his skull. “Just felt like it.”

Though palpably unappeased, Arthur does not push or press to talk about it, whatever ‘it’ is.

Rocking to and fro from heel to tiptoe, he waits patiently as Eames finishes replanting the remaining daffodils. He updates Eames about the outcome of the three-month-long con in a quiet and understated manner that is uniquely him, interweaving playful anecdotes and concise praise about the other team members where it is due.

Unhappy at being ignored Argus noses at his palms adoringly and Arthur accommodates by burying his face in his silky ruff, humming greetings and consolations and apologies for being away for so long.

Eames stares at the picture they make, twinges of remembrance (a dream, a disease, a death) stirring in his chest.

“Jealous?” Arthur catches his gaze speculatively, fingers scratching behind Argus’ ears.

“ _Obviously_ ,” he counters, rolling his eyes, only half-mocking.

***

Later that night Arthur crowds him onto the bed without warning or explanation, demanding and yet cautious, as if worried that Eames might startle and bolt. He brands greetings into the juncture of Eames’ thighs, brushes ticklish consolations into the soles of his feet and croons musical apologies into his vertebrae.

When he nuzzles at Eames’ scruffy neck, his lips are icy against the pulse point there.

Still later, as they lie tangled together on crumpled blankets, Eames grips those protruding hipbones harder than he usually would - hard enough to bruise and ache tomorrow. He bites into firm trapezius muscle, leaving behind a rosy ring of teeth marks and saliva. And when Arthur comes (shaking and whining, explosions simmering beneath his eyelids, toes curling) Eames holds onto him long after the reverberations, arms pinioning him to the bed.

As dawn chases night through the slumbering sky Arthur cards his fingers through Eames’ damp hair, sucking promises into the arch of his neck. A light breeze drifts through the room, chill against their heated skin.

“All right?” he pauses to murmur, sweat-soaked and sweet.

“Maybe,” Eames replies, tracing unsolvable equations into Arthur’s clavicle, running his fingertips carefully along the line of his long, long neck.

He is not quite sure, yet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Arthur mumbles drowsily, eyelids drooping.

(And how can Eames not kiss him for that?)

In a pot by the open window, a single orchid is in bloom.


End file.
